If anyone attended a very radical Catholic high school as I did, I’m positive you’d be familiar with Aristotle’s Principle of Non-Contradiction or at least heard of something along those lines. From what I can remember, we were taught that something “cannot be and not be at the same time” or something “cannot belong and not belong.” Black cannot be white at the same time. I think you see what I mean. Well, Aristotle, I may not be a genius at philosophy, but I’m pretty sure the night Holden was born gives more more than an argument and a half against this claim.
This exact night was both the best and worst night of my life.
To spare you from the harsh reality of giving birth, I will not go into much detail. If you want to know, feel free to ask me directly. But I will tell you the night fell nothing short of medieval torture involving no drugs and a vacuum.
You know how people tell you that the moment your child is born your life changes forever? Your life changes forever. All of the physical pain and discomfort dwindled to absolutely nothing the first time I saw my baby boy. His eyes were wide open, his hands reached out terrified. It was as if he needed me from the beginning. I truly did not know what love meant until 6:02 a.m. on January 17th, 2011.
I will never forget the first words that came out of my mouth: He looks just like Becca. Don’t forget this, it will play in significantly as you grow deeper with me into the blog.
That immediate skin-to-skin contact post-delivery that mother and newborn are supposed to share to promote attachment? I didn’t get that. Holden was whisked away from me and onto a table where a team of neonatologists examined him for a half an hour. Scary yes, but despite what anthropologists say, as important as that non-existant moment was, I’d say my attachment to Holden and vice versa was not hindered.